


Comfortably Silent

by AlexandertheOrdinary, Nessa (Vaneeka)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Hulkeye - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash, cluce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandertheOrdinary/pseuds/AlexandertheOrdinary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaneeka/pseuds/Nessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You always this friendly to random hitchhikers?” Bruce asks, situating himself properly in the car.</p>
<p>“You’re not exactly a random hitchhiker at this point,” Clint points out, three-point-turning back in the direction of Shell Rock. “What’s with the mud?”</p>
<p>“It’s muddy out,” Bruce answers matter-of-factly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfortably Silent

**Author's Note:**

> Find us at alessawrites.tumblr.com

A heavy backpack sags Bruce’s shoulders as the sun sets on on a dusty road somewhere in Iowa. Eyes downcast, he kicks up clouds of dirt while dragging his feet. The early summer heat leaves a thin sheen of sweat shining on his tanned skin. He runs a hand across his forehead, pushing away the frizzy, brown curls drooping from his hairline.

From behind him, a red muscle car drives bumpily up the road. It slows as it passes Bruce, coasting for a few feet before rolling to a stop. The brunet gives the car a cautious look. As he approaches, his eyes dart from the license plate, up to the window.

The driver steps out, resting his elbow on the roof of the car. Sandy hair sweeps across his forehead. His blue eyes are alert as he gives the traveler an easy smile.

“Hey,” he greets. “It’s pretty hot out here. You need a ride somewhere?”

Bruce gives him a once over and responds, “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not exactly smart to accept rides from strangers.”

The blond holds up his hands in a sign of peace. “I promise I’m not crazy,” he replies.

“I bet that’s what they all say."

“Come on,” the stranger insists. “It’s hot; you’re going to burn to death. I have AC and water bottles in the car.”

Bruce glances in the opposite direction, down the road. He considers his options carefully before sighing in resignation.

“Well,” he says, “better to die in relative comfort, I guess.”

The blond laughs in response and slides back into his car, blasting the air conditioning and slamming his door shut. Bruce tosses his bag into the backseat and climbs in. He clips in his seat belt and tries not to sigh in relief at the way the AC cools his heated skin. He graciously accepts an unopened water bottle when it’s offered.

"My name's Clint," the stranger says, grinning wide and looking perfectly at home under the hot sun. "Clint Barton."

"Bruce Banner," the traveler responds. "I suppose I'm lucky I met you, Clint; you don't even seem like a psycho."

Clint smiles that same smile that splits his face. “That’d be because I’m not,” he says. “I’m a cop. Where are you headed?”

Raising the bottle to his lips, Bruce responds, “The nearest bus station, if you’re going towards Waverly. If not, a motel will be fine.”

“I’m actually from Waverly.”

“Are we far out?”

“It’s about three or four miles? Give or take?”

The brunet frowns, doing quick math in his head. “It would have taken another hour or two if I’d kept walking,” he mutters. “I should have gotten an earlier start.”

The blond glances at the traveler out of the corner of his eye. “Guess so,” he agrees. “Where were you coming from?”

“Shell Rock. It’s, uh, west of here.”

“That's nearly an eight mile walk!” Clint declares.

Bruce shrugs, glancing out the window. “I’m used to walking. If you have to, you just do it, right? Plus, it’s healthy.”

Their conversation lulls, the radio playing some classic rock soft enough to be background noise; it’s not exactly comfortable. The hum of the engine purrs as the wheels bump gently along the uneven road. Clint keeps his eyes on the road for the most part, only occasionally glancing toward his passenger. Bruce doesn't ever meet his gaze, content to watch the Iowa landscape fly by his window. Golden cornfields take up much of the countryside, only sometimes separated by thin, wire fences that blur into nothing. Every now and then, an antiquated wind turbine crosses Bruce’s line of sight, a brief glimpse of an obelisk in the distance before it vanishes behind them. Once, he feels Clint's eyes on the back of his head, but when he looks, the blond is focused on the asphalt stretching in front of them.

“So,” Clint says, taking an exit off the dusty road. “Where you heading? From the bus station, I mean.”

“Home,” Bruce answers. “New York.”

Clint makes a sound of acknowledgement, his brow furrowing in thought. “That’s a long ride. What’s your business in Iowa?”

At first, Bruce doesn’t say anything, turning his gaze back to the window. “Visiting a friend,” he answers. Alongside the road, a few scattered houses and stretches of farmland steadily replace the acres of corn. Between the large gaps between the farmhouses, an old train putters loudly past in the opposite direction. The noise gives both men an excuse to keep silent for a few moments longer. They pass a battered sign, Welcome to Waverly displayed on the front, weathered and faded, as they drive into town.

The air between them ceases being somewhat comfortable as they pull onto the main road in town. Bruce distracts himself by staring resolutely at the tiny town outside his window. Shops and restaurants line the streets, tightly packed in. The handful of stores that haven’t changed their painted signs for newer, electronic ones are in dire need of a paint job. Potholes dot the path in front of them, mostly dodged with a slight turn of the steering wheel. The cracked sidewalks blend into the street, barely distinguishable from the asphalt of the road. Only the evenly spaced trees planted at the sidewalk’s edge serve as an adequate divider.

There aren’t a lot of people out walking; Bruce counts a dozen on his side of the road. Some of them look towards Clint’s car with a smile and a wave, clearly familiar with him. The entirety of Waverly feels close and western as Clint and Bruce continue towards the bus station.

“Waverly looks nice,” Bruce comments idly.

Clint cracks a smile, shaking his head. “Maybe compared to New York.”

They brake at a stoplight at the corner of 9th and Bremer. They aren't there for more than a few seconds when a woman comes jogging out of a nearby shop. She waves towards them, her long black hair bouncing around her shoulders as she moves, signalling for them to roll down a window. Clint frowns as she approaches, crossing over to their side of the road. “Sorry, hold on,” he mutters, rolling down his window.

The girl braces her arms on his door and leans in, her hair falling in her face. “Look what the cat dragged home,” she teases. “Who’s the stranger?”

Clint gently swats her out of out of his window, responding, “This is Bruce; I’m bringing him to the bus terminal.” He rolls his window up, just enough to dissuade her from trying again.  
Behind them, a beat-up white car beeps its horn impatiently. Kate glares at the woman behind the wheel and flips her the bird, motioning with her finger for her to go around them. The driver shouts at them as she passes, something angry and unintelligible. When Kate looks back at Clint, she’s wearing a mischievous grin.

“Alright,” Kate says. She peeks at Bruce in the passenger seat. “See you around.” The brunette turns on her heel and strides back towards her shop, taking her time and ignoring the irritated drivers on the road.

Clint sighs and continues driving, just barely missing running a red light. “Sorry.”

Bruce nods, eyeing the bus terminal as they approach it. “Oh, don't worry about it. I'm not in any hurry.”

Clint stops in front of the terminal and looks over at Bruce. "Here we are."

“Thanks,” Bruce tells him, unbuckling his seat belt. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Clint responds, giving him a kind smile. “Have a safe ride home.”

Bruce nods, returning the smile; he grabs his bag out of the backseat as he gets out of the car. He doesn’t look back to notice Clint watching him go.

* * *

 

The dead of winter settles heavily over the countryside the next time Bruce comes to Iowa. The sun has already set on the traffic-worn road between Shell Rock and Waverly. The sky is still a dim, dark blue; any sign of stars are hidden by the lingering light that comes with dusk.

Bruce, bundled up in a thick coat and hat, walks along the road alone, with his ragged backpack on. His progress is slow, as he often finds himself ducking into a thick, woolen scarf to shield his face from the sharp December winds.

Behind him, a police siren sounds for just a second before a cruiser pulls up alongside him. Clint, still in his uniform, is staring at him through the passenger-side window.

When it rolls open, Clint greets Bruce with, “Are you kidding me, man? It’s freezing out; get in the damn car.”

Bruce hesitates, mostly out of surprise, before accepting the ride. He maneuvers his backpack so it rests between his knees, shutting the car door when he settles in the passenger seat. The brunet rubs his hands together through his gloves, happy to be out of the cold.

Clint gives him a disbelieving look as he buckles his seat belt. “You aren't seriously trying to walk sixteen miles in this cold,” he states, putting the car back in drive.

“It’s not that cold,” Bruce tries to argue. Clint looks unimpressed.

“Banner,” he starts, “I’m from here. I know how cold it is.”

The hitchhiker shrugs noncommittally, pulling off his scarf and cold-fogged glasses. The action reveals a fresh-looking black eye. Stopping the car before he even has a chance to pull into the road, Clint double-takes, staring at Bruce.

“Whoa,” he says. “What happened to you?”

Bruce raises a hand to his face, looking as if he’d forgotten the damage was there. “Oh,” he mutters. “It’s nothing. I wasn’t as, um, well-received in Shell Rock as I was last time.”

“Yeah, but what happened?”

“I stepped on some toes and got punched,” Bruce answers. “It’s just a black eye. I’ve had worse.”

“Banner, who punched you in the face?”

“I’m pretty sure he wasn't in your jurisdiction. ”

Clint makes a frustrated noise, pulling back into the street. “Did you at least report it?” he asks.

Bruce frowns. “It’s not a big deal,” the brunet says. “I’m not pressing charges.”

“Bruce!”

“It’s nothing,” the hitchhiker insists. “I’m fine.”

The blond’s hands flex over the steering wheel. He doesn't respond to his companion for a while, before asking, “Bus station?”

“Please,” Bruce responds. “If it’s not too far out of your way.”

The two of them fall into the same silence as their last ride together a few months prior. The familiar purr of the engine soothes both of them. Bruce lets himself drift backwards, sinking into his seat comfortably.

“You make trips to Shell Rock often?” he asks, eyelids sagging sleepily.

“Sometimes,” Clint answers, flicking on his high beams as the sky darkens. “My ex-girlfriend moved there. I spent some time helping her getting settled.” He shrugs easily. “She’s still one of my best friends; I kind of had to.”

Bruce nods slowly, rubbing his fingers into his temple. The brunet squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them, trying to wake himself up. He sits up straight, holding in a yawn. “Is this the same girl from before?” he asks. “Kate, I think?”

“Nah,” Clint responds. "She's like nine years old; it'd be weird. No, this is someone else. The way things went with us, we decided being friends would work out better.”

Bruce makes a noise of acknowledgement, averting his gaze. He’s silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “What have you been up to lately?”

Clint chuckles. “Oh, you know,” he says. “The usual hick-town police work. Had to arrest someone for drunk driving a tractor on Bremer Avenue.”

“What?” Bruce jokes. “That’s illegal now?”

Clint nods gravely. “Not only was he under the influence, he was severely under the speed limit.” His serious tone pulls another laugh out of Bruce who raises a hand to cover his mouth. Clint smiles at him, bright and warm. Bruce smiles back and ducks his head, trying to pull a straight face.

“Visiting your friend in Shell Rock again?” Clint asks as he turns them onto the exit to Waverly. He gets a single nod in response; it isn't curt, just tired. “Is this friend the reason you got punched?” the blond presses.

It takes a few seconds before Bruce responds with a telling, “Maybe.”

“I really think you should tell me what happened,” Clint says, his fingers tapping agitatedly on the steering wheel.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bruce argues, letting his head thud against the window beside him.

“It is to me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like seeing people with unreported bruises,” the cop tells him sincerely. He’s met with another stretch of silence from his passenger. Bruce has his line of sight pointed stubbornly at the landscape, looking out at the darkened farmsteads that line the main road to Waverly. As they roll into town, the streets are nearly empty. It isn't particularly late, but it’s unusually still. A few pedestrians, bundled in their own winter gear, walk the roads. Many of them head for the local grocer’s, but some are in clusters, making a beeline for the only modern-looking cafe on the street.

“It’s a long story,” Bruce finally says, sounding weary.

“We can always make time,” Clint tries, curious and concerned. Both men know it’s an empty offer. The bus terminal is already in view, at the end of a trail of streetlights bordering the old-fashioned Iowan road. There are few buses that head east; missing a bus means a night at the motel with money Bruce doesn't have. Neither says anything else until Clint pulls over in front of the terminal.

“I’ll make you a deal,” the brunet tells him as he pulls on his scarf. “Find me walking from Shell Rock to Waverly one more time and I’ll answer whatever you want.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Clint promises. Putting on his glasses, Bruce attempts a smile and steps out of the car.

If he hears Clint laughing when he slips over a patch of black ice on his way into the station, he doesn't show it.

* * *

 

Iowa mornings come crisp in April. It’s especially chilly along the stretch of road Bruce always walks. This time, he’s heading east, away from Waverly. His pants cling to his legs from the mud that’s splattered along the bottom half of his jeans and caked onto his shoes. Farther down the road, just a speck in the distance, is a car. Bruce doesn't pay it any mind until it becomes distinguishable.

The brunet swallows a sigh, shaking his head; it’s Clint’s civilian car.

Clint, grinning like the cat who caught the canary, coasts to a stop next to Bruce. “Well, what’s this?” he teases. “Coming from my town without me?”

Bruce snorts. “Don’t I always?”

The blond’s grin widens. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride. Maybe get you back to Waverly before nightfall.”

Doing as instructed, Bruce slides into his usual spot, the passenger seat. Before closing the door, he tries to kick some of the mud off his shoes. “You always this friendly to random hitchhikers?” he asks, situating himself properly in the car.

“You’re not exactly a random hitchhiker at this point,” Clint points out, three-point-turning back in the direction of Shell Rock. “What’s with the mud?”

“It’s muddy out,” Bruce answers matter-of-factly, “and a lot of people don’t realize that when they drive through mud, it splashes. Usually onto innocent passersby.”

“That sucks, man,” Clint offers with a frown. “So,” he says, “I found you again. Does this mean you’ll tell me why you got punched last time we met?”

Bruce gives him a surprised look. “You remember that?”

“I had to write it down.”

The brunet’s expression twists into something resembling reluctance before he raises a hand to scratch anxiously at the back of his neck. “Well,” Bruce says. “A deal’s a deal, I guess. That friend of mine, Betty? Her father punched me, actually.” When all he gets from Clint is a curiously raised eyebrow, he continues, “He doesn't like me much. Betty and I used to date.”

“How’d a city boy like you get a country girl like her?” Clint interrupts, glancing towards him with a crooked smile. Bruce shrugs.

“I wasn't always a city boy,” he points out. “I was born in Arizona and moved up to Iowa with my Aunt Susan when I was kid. Betty and I've been friends for ages; we even went to the same pre-med program back in New York. The only difference is she came back. Anyway, about a year and a half ago, I broke up with her. She took it pretty well; she kind of knew, you know?"

Clint nods in understanding. “Not in love with her?” he asks.

“You could say that,” Bruce responds. “She was great, but…” He trails off, tension building in his shoulders. “It’s kind of hard to be in love with a girl when you’re, you know, batting for the other team?”

“Right, right,” Clint says. “I getcha.”

"Long story short," Bruce continues, scratching at the back of his neck, "her dad's convinced I broke her heart and refuses to let it go. So, he saw me last time and punched me in the face."

Clint looks at Bruce in bewilderment. “Wouldn't it have been worse to stay with her and lead her on?”

Bruce tries not to squirm in his seat under Clint's intense focus. “Logically, I know that,” he argues; it sounds weak, even to himself.

“What kind of life would that have been?” Clint asks. “You both would have been miserable and you would have been someone you're not for the rest of your life.”

They sit in silence, tense and uneasy. Eventually, Clint eases off the brake and they continue down the road. Neither of them says anything for a while.

“Sorry,” the blond eventually says, breaking the tension between them. “That probably wasn't my place.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce answers, looking outside. Beside him, Clint goes quiet, his hands flexing over the steering wheel. They take the exit into Shell Rock surrounded by the most uncomfortable silence they've ever shared.

* * *

 

It's summer again in Iowa, and the sun would be visible, setting over the horizon, if not for the dark clouds pummeling the ground with rain from up above. Bruce, bundled up in a brightly colored raincoat, clutching an umbrella, is steadily making his way along the side of the road, not even close to halfway to Waverly. The wind kicks up violently, trying to steal his umbrella.

As if it’s just become part of his routine, Clint pulls up beside him, appearing almost from nowhere, and pops the passenger door open without even bothering to ask if Bruce wants a ride. The brunet wrangles his umbrella shut before hopping into the car, visibly shivering.

“You know,” he says when he gets his chattering teeth under control. “I’m starting to think you’re following me.”

“I’m not,” Clint tells him. “Maria, from the bus station, calls you ‘the suspicious man from New York,’ since you’re the only person who comes up here. She gives me a call when she sees you in case you’re up to no good or something.”

Bruce laughs, pulling off his glasses to wipe away the raindrops smudging his vision. “You know me,” he drawls, “just causing all sorts of trouble.”

“Oh, all the time,” Clint agrees with a grin. “So much so, that I need to spy on you through paranoid bus station attendants.”

“Wouldn't it be easier to get my phone number?” the brunet teases. Clint gives him a significant look.

“Would you actually call if you needed a ride?” he asks.

“Well,” Bruce says slowly, carefully holding his companion’s gaze. “I’d call if I were in town. I can’t make any promises about the ride part.”

Purposefully, Clint looks away, turning his attention to the drenched, muddy road. A smile, small, but victorious, creeps onto blond’s face and he nods.

“Okay, then. I’ll get your number.”

The rest of their ride is comfortably silent.


End file.
